


Jasper and gold

by backfourteen



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Bayern München, I guess I should tag "divorce", LA Galaxy - Freeform, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Real Sociedad, Sky Sports, expected levels of distress and angst, post-retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:04:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A smart man knows when to leave, when to quit.</i>
</p><p>And neither of them are that smart when it comes to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe this is my first gerlonso, considering that's the pairing that led me here. It was getting a bit long so I've decided to do chapters. This is also the first fic I've ever written than I have had legitimate trouble sitting down and finishing. I want so much for these two and it's overwhelming.

Xabi and Steven announce their upcoming retirements from professional football on the same day in January. It’s not planned – they don’t speak or see one another much anymore. It’s also not planned that their retirement parties end up on the same evening a few weeks following the announcement. In step with what friends, family, teammates would expect, Xabi’s is rather grand and Steven’s is not, and both men end up bevvied and tucked away in a corner, on the telephone.

“Why are you calling me at your party?”

“Why are you answering your cell at yours?”

Their smiles are equally wide and sloppy, Xabi’s as bubbly as his expensive champagne and Steven’s as relaxed and warm as his beer. They can hardly hear each other over the music and noise but fuck if they aren’t giving it their best. There’s an importance, an essentiality in why they are on the phone, as if the retirement isn’t real until they talk about it with each other. 

“You’re too young to retire, like. Legs still boss, Xabi. You’re not jaded enough.”

Xabi hums and finishes off the flute of champagne in his free hand. He’s sweating underneath his jumper even though it’s a frigid January in Germany, and juggles his phone clumsily as he slips out of the jumper, leaving him just in a rather damp button down. 

“Okay, Steven. Sorry about the noise, I am taking my sweater off.”

“Lad. You make enough to hire a stripper, don’t have to do it yourself.”

“That is cruel, I will not have strippers at my party. This is a nice event, to which I invite you and you don’t come.”

Steven laughs as Lexie runs over, presumably on a mission with something to say, and he catches her and brushes her hair out of her face. _Go find your mum, I’m almost finished here_ , he says, and she goes as easily as she came. 

“Right. I’m well free this evening, Xabs. Got your invite and tossed it in the rubbish bin.”

“How are your daughters?”

“Growing like mad. Having an absolute banger at the house here. We’ve got this garden they love.” 

Xabi places his phone to his chest as shining colored lights find him and someone on a microphone urges him to come to the middle of the floor, to which he shouts _no, nein, por favor, far too drunk, okay._ Steven hears a faint _who are you on the phone with?_ to which Xabi slurs _your fucking mum_ and Steven grins incredulously.

“Oi! You talk to your nan and kids that way? Drunk twat.”

“No, Steven, we here are all loving. Does Alex enjoy Los Angeles as much as your daughters?”

“She’s more in love with LA than with me, I’ll bet.”

Steven catches a glimpse of Alex circulating the party, their three daughters in tow. They’re all wearing oxblood red dresses and their shiny blonde hair hangs long and soft, and he feels a surge of pride that distracts him momentarily from the soft, tinny voice in his ear. 

“…and Emma is very big now and she loves Germany. Jon and Ane love Germany and we pay more for Liverpool matches on the TV – Nagore is always saying why must they have these different football outfits, why can’t Ane wear the white top and red bottom.”

Steven listens patiently as Xabi rambles, humming in response to let Xabi know he’s still listening but drunk Xabi wouldn’t need the encouragement. The man can chat. 

“You’re talking my ear off, Alonso. You’ll make a bloody good pundit come May. Come back to England and we’ll work together.”

“Steven, Stevie, I am not. Don’t know what I will do but England is not.”

“Christ, you’re pissed. Not making any sense.”

They both smile into the phone and get simultaneous _come back out here_ gestures from their wives. Stevie holds up his hand gently and Xabi nods languidly, both leaving their posts and immediately being surrounded by well-wishers waving drinks and shots. 

“Cheers, Xabs, I’ve got to run. Congrats, mate. You’ll be well brilliant. And eat something to soak up the bubbly.”

“Goodnight, Steven. We will call you soon again and you are not drunk enough.”

Steven hangs up as he embraces his young, snappily dressed teammates and guides them over to the open bar, and he kisses Alex as she passes. He glows in the presence of his family and Liverpudlian mates that traveled a long way to celebrate – and it really feels like a celebration. There’s no anxiety or pressure and Steven revels openly in what feels like freedom – his final season just ended, he’s not coming back to the squad. And Steven expects to be surprised by his lack of gloom but he isn’t. The spark has been gone for a while. 

Xabi, on the other hand, still has a few months to go at Bayern and is absolutely anxious out of his mind. With glassy eyes he watches his teammates mill about the party, most likely getting into trouble, most likely just as drunk as he is. It’s been an odd season at Bayern with Ancelotti coming in for Pep – Xabi knows Ancelotti but he’s fallen out of favor in the starting eleven and on his 35th birthday, November 25th, 2016, he makes up his mind. He tells Nagore in bed that night, _A smart man knows when to leave, when to quit._

Both Steven and Xabi’s nights culminate with a large group of their guests holding a toast to them, announcing achievements and the stray embarrassing thing about their locker room behavior or something they’ve done while plastered. They both gently refuse to give a speech – by this time of the night, Steven has started to sober and holds his youngest on his hip, while Xabi is a bloody mess and Thiago and Javi have to hold him up so he can say his goodbyes. Guilt lays heavily on both their chests – Steven pulls his phone out as he stands in half-conversation with Jamie and Redders and texts Xabi _gutted I couldn’t be there tonight. should have coordinated better._ And as Thiago and Javi help Xabi into the passenger seat of his car and his children look on with snickers, Thomas runs out after them, Xabi’s phone and wallet in hand. _Hoho, Xabi ist sehr betrunken!_ Thomas laughs and Xabi doesn’t manage a _Thomas but I am not muy borracho, estás borracho, cabrón_ until Thomas is long gone and Nagore shushes him as the kids laugh in the backseat. 

Xabi looks at his phone and reads the text from Steven twenty times before it really registers. He tries to text _yo también_ but the keyboard is stuck on German and he sends gibberish, to which Steven laughs aloud and replies _sloshed Xabi, always so entertaining. sleep well mate._

 

 

Xabi sleeps very well but wakes up with the most horrendous hangover of his entire life. His eyes burn from the sunlight soaking his bedroom and he feels an intense, urgent need to throw up, which he hobbles quickly to the bathroom and does. He stays in this position, hunched heavily on the toilet bowl, wearing only boxers and hair shoved in multiple directions until Nagore reenters the bedroom and covers her mouth to laugh at him in the doorway for a few moments. 

“Stop laughing, is not funny.”

“You have a call just now. I told them you were out for a minute and would be right back – they are on hold.”

Xabi looks up at his wife, eyes watering and face drenched in cold sweat. He breathes shakily as Nagore fills a glass with water and hands it to him, running her hand briefly through his sopping hair. 

“Who is calling? If it is Steven, tell him not right now.”

“It isn’t Steven. It is Real Sociedad. And I didn’t know you still spoke to – ”

“What do they want? Is Eusebio or someone else?”

“I don’t know, Xabier. But it is _oso garrantzitsua_ , they said. Very important.”

With Nagore’s help, Xabi stands, his legs shaking violently as she splashes water from the faucet onto his face and wipes him down with a towel. 

“Xabier, you are too old to drink this way.”

“Yes, yes. I always know this after.”

Xabi collapses back in bed, grimacing as he comes in contact with sheets he’s sweated through, but it isn’t unpleasant enough for him not to spread eagle. Nagore leaves briefly and comes back with Xabi’s phone, three little white pills, and a small glass of orange juice. 

“ _Kaixo_ , it’s Xabi.”

Xabi mostly listens in a conversation of Basque, Spanish, and English for the next half hour. It’s Real Sociedad’s chairman Jokin Aperribay on the phone, and Xabi goes to take the pills with his juice when Aperribay says plainly, _come to Real Sociedad. Eusebio is to go in May. You will be the new manager._ Xabi nearly chokes on the orange juice and some spills out of his mouth and onto the bed. 

“But I am still in my management courses. And I have never managed.”

“You have time to finish them. And your name was the first that came up for someone to replace Eusebio. We are looking for a Basque manager above all. Think about it for a week and call me back.”

“No, I will do it. _Etorriko naiz._ ”

And the conversation ends with the promise of more administrative phone calls. Xabi’s head is spinning when he walks to the kitchen, plopping down at the counter and resting his cheek on the cold marble countertop. Nothing feels real and Xabi wonders if that phone call actually happened.

“What did they want?”

“I tell them I will manage Real Sociedad.”

Nagore sets down the apple she is eating with a thud. 

“What?”

“Please, Nagore, my head. I tell them yes. Eusebio will leave in May and I will go.”

“Do you mean ‘we’? ‘We will go’? It is more than just you, Xabier.”

“Do you not want to go back to _Euskadi_ , to San Sebastián?”

“Do you not like Munich? I know the television people want for you to talk about football here – you can do that and we don’t have to leave.”

“Nagore, please. Give time to thinking about it. It will not be until summer.” 

Nagore backs away until her back hits the other counter, picking up her apple and finishing it off as Xabi watches. She glares straight at him and he is the one to turn his head, to break the gaze. 

“You will tell the children we are leaving.”

And Xabi’s stomach turns again, catching a glimpse of their three right outside the back door, throwing snow at each other and definitely not wearing enough clothing for it. 

“They will learn Basque, see our families. It will be good for them.”

“I am not sure they will be happy with this.”

Xabi lifts his head from the counter and watches his children intently now, imagining what it will be like to tell them. In his mind, they are quietly content or even happy. If Xabi knows anything, it’s himself and his children. _Nagore, on the other hand_ , he thinks as he opens the back door with a grin and greets Jon, Ane, Emma. _I never know what she will do._

 

 

“I want to move back to Liverpool.”

It’s February and Steven is exhausted. He bypasses the cream and sugar for his coffee and begins to sip it black, and Alex makes a face at him from her chair at the breakfast table where she is typing away on her laptop. 

“You fucking muppet, we’ve only been here two years. Have your scran and coffee, you’re on one.”

“Am not. Going back and forth for work is bloody awful. I don’t like airports and I don’t want to spend half me life on a plane.”

“Then why haven’t you taken a job here in LA, chatting on the telly?”

“America is absolutely wrecking me head, Alex. It’s so big. It takes so long to get anywhere and…in LA it’s fine but you spend a day traveling to the proper Baltic if it’s New England away or something.”

“What’s New England, then? As opposed to our England, the old one?”

Steven cracks a smile and rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t get to spend any proper time here or there. A few days in Liverpool, then I’ve got a few days’ break so I come back here.”

“Best of both worlds, if you ask me.”

Steven momentarily drops the subject as the girls run into the kitchen, chatting rapidly and incomprehensibly, all in their matching, haphazard school uniforms. They’ve clearly done each other’s hair, and while Steven has a laugh at the jutting pigtails and random, knotty braids, Alex calls them over and begins to fix it. Lourdes hangs onto Steven’s leg and he hoists her onto the counter, undoing a massive knot on the back of her head and apologizing quietly every time she whines. 

“Girls, what’s happening at school today?”

Alex asks, plaiting Lilly-Ella and Lexie’s hair while they shovel dry cereal into their mouths. Lilly-Ella and Lexie’s answers come out as something muffled and incoherent, and Lourdes squeaks _nothing, mum!_ as Steven tightens a rather pathetic ponytail in her hair. Lourdes pats Steven on the arm and says _that’ll do dad_ and he sets her on the ground.

“Sound, girls. We’re paying a lot for you to do nothing at your private school, like.”

Alex eyes Steven with an exasperated smile as she calls for the girls to get in the car - they’re running rather late. They run out to the garage and Alex turns back to Steven, who has poured himself another cup of coffee. 

“I know you’re rammed with your gig in London, love. I know it’s hard for you. But this conversation isn’t over. Don’t go making plans without the four of us.”

And he nods silently.

“I’m due back in London tomorrow morning.”

“And you’ll be back this weekend when I’m due in New York City.”

“’Course, Alex. Girls and I will have a boss time.

Alex slings her purse over her shoulder and steps half out the door, looking back with a giant grin. Steven waves as she shuts the door, accidentally setting his coffee mug down on his plane tickets for tomorrow and cursing as it leaves a brown ring. 

“Fuck the fucking commute.”

He says, but dutifully closes out of all the _open homes for sale on Merseyside, in Liverpool, in St. Helens, in Wirral, in Knowsley, in Sefton_ tabs on his tablet. The only window left open is his messages, and he replies to Xabi’s _I am always asking you why you still live in America Steven_ with _we can’t all play for Bayern_ and a wink face. Before Xabi has time to reply, Steven types _I’ll be home soon. too hot here._ And Xabi predictably replies _the weather in Liverpool is very bad. you will love munich._

 _will or would?_ Steven answers and Xabi says _would. unless you are wanting to visit_ and Steven leaves that one alone. 

 

 

Xabi lingers over that unanswered text for almost the entire day until he begins to feel pathetic. His eyes stay glued down at the message screen while Nagore lets him have it, her intense, beautiful face flushed and furious but her voice calm as she paces. 

“ _Hijo de puta_. How long will this go on. How long will you talk to San Sebastián and tell them _sí, todo lo qui quieras_ , no problems. Xabier. _No queremos ir._ We. Do. Not. Want. To. Go.”

Xabi’s eyes stay down and his fingers tap on the sofa, his cheeks burning. They got the kids to bed despite the strong rain, and while they read to Emma to ease her to sleep, Xabi’s phone rang repeatedly and he left the room to take it. It was Real Sociedad – it always is – ringing about one thing or another despite the late hour. Is Xabi preparing his move, is Xabi finishing his managerial certifications, how is the second half of his season at Bayern going. _Yes, yes, fine._ He rushed to get off the phone but it was too late, Emma was asleep. 

“Nagore. We have been talking about this for almost two months. This is the job I want. This is an important job. If I am to be an important manager, I start there.”

“ _Lo que quieras, lo que quires._ What you want. I am very good here. My friends are here, my business is here, our children have their friends here and their schools.”

“We have moved before. This time we are going home, _querida._ ”

Xabi jumps slightly as Nagore claps her hands together, closing in a bit on Xabi. He squirms farther back into the sofa but doesn’t look away from her.

“Can you say ‘if’? Can you not even say ‘if’? If we move, Xabier. If we go home. Or have you decided you go with or without us?”

“You knew this could happen once I retire. That we must move again to follow my work. Just like a _jugador_. Just like Liverpool to Madrid to Munich.”

“ _Hombre egoísta_. Why is your work before mine? Why is your work before the children?”

Xabi falls silent and his hands tense into balls. The rain smacks into the walls and adds to the buzz growing in his ears. 

“ _Contestame,_ Xabier.”

“Do you not tire of the same place? Do you not miss the Country? When is the last we went and our children saw their home?”

“This is their home. Munich. They are older now so they have attached here.”

“Is this your home, Nagore?”

“Munich is my home because we are here together. You have made Madrid our home and Liverpool our home and San Sebastián our home. Is it not our time to choose?”

Nagore is crying and Xabi softens, running his hand over his stubbled face and exhaling through his nose. He rubs absently at his collarbones, looking over at Nagore as she perches on the opposite end of the sofa. 

“I need…I need to do this. I will not do nothing. I do not want to stay where I am not wanted, where I am not needed. Understand me. What I have worked for all my life does not end when I leave Bayern. I will be taken seriously at San Sebastián.”

“And it is all before us.”

Then the air is still, the only sound the pattering of rain.

“You're being a bad father."

She says pointedly and almost immediately her eyes widen in apology, but Xabi is already walking to the coat rack, pulling on his raincoat and angrily knocking things over in the process. 

“Xabi – ”

“No! Please. No.”

It is so late now, so dark as it is in winter, but he takes the car and begins to drive, following vague intuitive directions to somewhere. The windshield wipers hardly work hard enough to keep the water off, the headlights are almost completely drowned out by the rainfall. Bad father, bad father, bad father. It’s a soundtrack on max volume. Xabi pulls into a parking lot and pulls his phone out of his pocket. There’s no message, phone call, voicemail, nothing from Nagore. His cold fingers shake and jitter on the touchscreen, and he clicks on _Steven._

Xabi chides himself aloud – _you are silly to think he will be awake, or that he will care_ – with a shiver as he holds the phone up to his ear, wet with rain trickling down from his hair. It rings. Rings until the answering machine picks up. And the answering machine is not even Steven’s voice, just an automated one. He tries again and the result is the same. 

The ringing drives him mad. He begs to hear a voice other than Nagore’s or his own. 

He tries again and again and again. He gives up. He is blank, motionless and slumped as his car hums and the heater blows against his face. He drops the phone into the passenger seat. He remembers training in the morning and the thought twists his insides. He knows what’s coming. He knows he can trust his intuition, and something feels freshly cracked. Something feels over. 

He gets home and Nagore has shut off all the lights and gone to bed. Ane walks out into the living room clumsily as if she’s sleepwalking, clad in her softest pajamas, and Xabi watches her, still in his sopping raincoat, soaking the sofa and floor around it. But she walks toward him, very intent, and he strips out of his coat just in time for her to wrap her little arms around his neck. He hugs her back and gets them both a glass of water, and they sit in the dark side-by-side on the couch until they both fall asleep. 

 

 

“ _Salut_ , Stevie! So glad to work together again. You look well. _Quel beau matin_. It is a beautiful day.”

Thierry greets Steven in the car park at Sky and Steven grins, clapping Thierry on the back fondly. 

“So made up, Thierry. Lovely spring, proper April. Brilliant in LA this time of year – a bit hot but. I’m telling you. Don’t know how you lived in New York.”

Steven feels slightly guilty about his glow – it comes when he’s away from LA, when he’s in Liverpool and in London for work. The past few months’ worth of rows with Alex over moving to Liverpool have been in vain but they’ve managed to work around them – the family, as far as Stevie knows, is still very much intact. His sanity may be depleted from the constant back and forth but his girls are happy. But being home in England always gives him the glow, and his Sky producers love the glow. And the glow paired with masterful makeup and a good chat about top 4-contending Liverpool – well, that’s just angelic. 

Thierry and Steven are working with Gary Neville today, who’s popped in for a visit to talk about Valencia’s majestic climbing of the La Liga table. Steven greets Gary with enthusiasm and Gary laughs, sitting between Steven and Thierry to get their makeup done. 

“Valencia contending with Madrid, Barca, Atleti. Absolutely boss. Hate to say it, Neville, but I’m impressed.”

Steven says through the tickle of the brush on his face, and Thierry agrees.

“Have you been keeping up with your mate’s future club? The Basque club, Real Sociedad? Not doing so well. Might not escape relegation this season. It’ll come down to these last few matches.”

It takes Steven a moment to realize Gary is talking about Xabi, and Steven feels stupid. For the past month or two he has been ignored when trying to contact Xabi. He’s asked other people who know Xabi and no one has spoken to him. Steven religiously tunes into Bayern matches but does not regularly see him – he’s clearly fallen out of favor in the Ancelotti era. Steven expects it to be managerial bullshit and he maintains that in public. Xabi’s still the best thing on the pitch in his eyes and he’s taken some shit for that but it doesn’t matter to him. Steven thinks of the combination of the relegation of Xabi’s team with his last, lackluster season at Bayern and thinks Xabi must need a chat, a drink. But he won't pick up his fucking phone.

“I have, yeah. Alonso’s been hard to reach these days. Actually more like impossible. Otherwise I’d cop a quote or get him on the show, eh, Thierry? Two Reds and a Gunner on Spurs winning the fucking league.”

“God, Stevie. Not yet. Not official yet.”

Thierry and Steven laugh but Gary does not, asking the woman doing his makeup to stop for a moment. Thierry and Steven look over and Gary’s concerned as he looks up, his phone gripped tightly in his hand.

“Gerrard. Read any news today or anything?”

“I haven’t. Something happen?”

Gary passes his phone to Thierry first, who reads for about five seconds before making a face and breathing out _wow, oh no_ , scrolling a bit before passing it back to Gary. Steven is curious at this point and practically snatches it out of Gary’s hand when Gary leans his way, and Steven’s heart drops directly to his shiny shoes. 

“As if. This has got to be a bloody fucking tabloid.”

“I know that’s just the Daily Mail, bunch of cads. But it’s everywhere, Steven.”

“Speculation. He’s just been more private lately, they’ve not been going out, like.”

Steven glares down at the phone screen again, his vision going a little fuzzy around the edges. Headline: _Xabi Alonso and Wife Nagore Aranburu Separate, Begin Divorce Proceedings._

“Xabi would never want it in public like this. How did - he never would have talked to the Daily fucking Mail about anything, let alone this. He didn’t even tell _me_.”

Gary and Thierry fall silent as Steven raises his voice, scrolling angrily on Gary’s phone, scouring the article.

“Hang on. She put something on Twitter – the article cites it. ‘We fully support Xabi on his move to San Sebastián.’ This is fucking mad.”

Steven thrusts the phone back at Gary and the makeup artists cautiously begin to work again. Steven leans his head back and inhales sharply, shutting his eyes. He can hardly focus during that day's show. Thierry and Gary do their best to help him out but his listlessness is obvious. His thoughts churn like a slow, thick molasses, slowing and weighing his body down. _He didn’t tell me._

“Would he have told you?” 

Steven realizes he’s spoken aloud and Thierry has answered. They’re out now, at a restaurant, and Steven only foggily recollects moving locations. Gary’s across the way chatting urgently in Spanish on his cell phone.

“What?”

“You never really talk about Xabi. Do you ever see him?”

Steven reaches forward for his glass of water and sips it liberally. 

“Not lately, no. But he’s my mate, he and I always – ”

“When did you last speak?”

“January. Our retirements.”

“Four months ago?”

“Piss off, Thierry. You’re telling me you ring your mates daily?”

“Or send them messages, you know. Funny pictures.”

Steven swipes Gary’s glass of wine, slumping back in his chair and finishing it off. 

“What’s the fucking point of this…lecture I’m getting here.”

“You said it yourself, Xabi would not want people to know about his personal life. So why would he tell someone he hasn’t spoken to in four months and hasn’t seen in – ”

Thierry pauses patiently in the way he does and Steven doesn’t know if he expects him to fill in the blank. But Steven won’t. It’s been almost two years and that’s embarrassing. 

“Okay, okay, Jesus. Still doesn’t explain why he won’t pick up my calls. Or ignores them, I guess. Can never reach him. I’ve tried.”

Thierry smiles sadly and for a split second Steven feels as though he’s about to get the news that Xabi is actually dead. 

“If you spoke to him more often, you might have known he has a new telephone number.”

Gary swivels back around to face Thierry and Steven, tucking his phone back into his pocket. 

“Who’s got a new number, then?”

“How the fuck do you know he’s changed his number? Do the two of you ring each other in bed every night or what?”

“I send him an email.”

“You _email_ Xabi.”

“I email loads of my friends.”

“Shut up, Gary, you’re not a part of this.”

“Well, I’m at the table, aren’t I.”

All three of them go silent and the low bustling hum of the restaurant takes over. Steven grabs his phone off the table and goes to his contacts, scrolls to Xabi’s name. His thumb lingers over the contact. It’s just _Xabi_. He’s only got a few contacts like that – no last name, maybe a nickname, something short and sweet. _Mum. Dad. Alex. Carra. Redders. Xabi._ He deletes it quick and it only stings for a second. _That’s the last fucking time Xabi Alonso gets any of my energy._ He looks up and Gary and Thierry are looking back at him. 

“Why’re you staring at me.”

“We’re sorry, mate.”

“That’s fine, just stop staring like I’m the one splitting with my wife.”

They leave soon after and Thierry puts a comforting hand between Steven’s shoulders as they exit. 

“I will send you Xabi’s new number.”

Steven holds up his hand and shrugs out of Thierry’s touch.

“No. Don’t want it.”

Thierry holds the door open for Steven and Gary and holds Steven back for a moment before they get into the car.

“No?”

“No.”


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the season comes and goes. Tottenham win the league but Thierry somehow maintains his fierce grace and politesse. Pep’s City come second, Wenger’s Arsenal third, Klopp’s Liverpool fourth. Steven’s life stays exactly the same – back and forth from LA to London so much that he thinks he starts recognizing certain cloud structures. The flying wears him out and makes it hard to get quality exercise in sometimes, so Alex puts him on the same strict diet she eats. _You eat like a fucking bunny_ , he says with celery in his mouth. _If we would just move back home_ – but he is always cut off. _This is home, Steven._

He is extremely hesitant to tell Alex and the girls when he is offered a gig as a first-team assistant coach for Liverpool, which would require them to move back to Liverpool. The Liverpool-London commute is nothing compared to the LA-London commute. He glows with the idea. No more planes. He does eventually sit his family down in their living room one night in late July a few days after being offered the position. 

“Us.”

“Sorry?”

“You said, ‘The gig requires _us_ to move back to Liverpool.’”

Steven looks at his wife with a squint and a slight, confused smile. The three girls sit around her, calm and disinterested. 

“I did. Because it does.”

“We’re not moving back.”

Alex motions circularly toward the girls and herself when she says _we’re._

“I have to report to training five to six times a week, and I’m required at Sky two to three times a week. Can’t do the back and forth anymore. Not saying that because I just don’t want to – which I don’t.”

Alex exhales angrily and grabs Steven’s hands.

“Me and the girls will just stay here. We can do the visiting thing. Holidays.”

Steven yanks his hands away and looks over at the girls, who do not seem even the least bit concerned or aware of what’s occurring. 

“Alex, Jesus Christ. We’re not getting a divorce, like. Making it sound like that.”

At the word _divorce_ , the girls begin to squirm and both Alex and Steven hurriedly assure them no such thing will ever happen between them. 

“Apparently it’s done wonders for Nagore. Living away from Xabi. Seems like they are in a good place.”

Steven snaps up, a fiery full-body shudder hitting him, Xabi’s name registering like an unwelcome punch in the cheekbone. 

“What the fuck – sorry, girls – does he have to do with this? When have you fucking – _sorry, girls_ – when have you spoken to Nagore? And what do you mean they’re in a good place. They're divorced, you tit.” 

“I text with her every once and a while.”

“Listen to me, Alex. Xabi moved to Spain for a job. I need to move to Liverpool for a job. Nagore stayed behind because she didn’t want to leave and they split. That’s not happening with us.”

Lilly-Ella clears her throat and Steven falls silent.

“What are we talking about?”

“Dad got a job back in Liverpool, love. He is going there for a while.”

“Oi! If you’re so busy here that you can’t move home, we need to discuss some things in private.”

Alex leans back into the couch, almost relaxed in her unforced, steadfast insistence. She looks at Steven and he stares back, acutely aware of the teary hiccups now coming from the younger girls. His face steels despite the angry sting in his eyes. 

“All of this involves the girls as well.”

“You want me to talk about the custody of our girls in front of them, yeah? Fucking do one, Alex.” 

Alex pats the girls softly, reassuringly. _Mum and Dad love you. Daddy’s not angry with you._ Steven’s head throbs in time with his chest and he rises from his seat, pacing around the living room. 

“We aren’t Xabi and Nagore. We don’t fight.”

“That’s what you think. How many times over the last few months have I told you we aren’t going back to Liverpool? And you say _okay Alex, okay Alex._ Not really listening at all, just planning your return all this time. And you want to be with me and the girls. Soz, Stevie. Can’t have fucking both.”

But that’s not how Steven remembers these months at all. And he’s never felt such surging, boiling, cascading fury toward anyone as he does toward Alex now, who is now buried beneath their three visibly shaken daughters. All four of them, his girls, blonde and beautiful as you like, gazing at him, awaiting a response. 

“I love the four of you more than anything.”

“More than this job offer? More than Liverpool?”

Steven can’t hide his pause, his moment of wane, the split second it takes him to register the difference between the time he’s been with Liverpool and the time he’s had this family, the day he met Alex. It makes him ill that it’s his brain’s visceral response to do this math, that the response on his tongue is that Liverpool had his heart and blood first. It’s not what he wants to say, but. He’d already taken the job. 

“We’re going to bed.”

He still hasn’t moved from the same spot when Alex is finished putting the girls to bed, and she brushes briefly past him to go to their bedroom. She comes back out with her pillows and blankets and throws them on the couch. 

“Don’t be silly, Alex.”

“Let me know if you need any help finding a place in Liverpool. Still got friends there in real estate.”

“Why is it so easy for you to write me off? Why can’t you see how hard it is to make this decision? I work to provide for you and the girls.”

“But you don’t. You work because your job is the only thing you care to give the fucking time of day.”

“Retirement has not been easy to get used to. Don’t you attack me over my dedication to something that’s completely new to me.”

“I’m not. I’m just pointing out what’s obvious to everyone but you. Do what you want, Steven. And the girls. They’ll stay here and visit you on school holidays and if I have to leave town for a long time. You don’t get my daughters if you leave me.” 

“You’re really taking a fucking page out of Nagore’s book here. Why don’t you tell all your online friends about how I left you, like. Fucking tweet about it. Christ, Alex – you knew what you were in for when you married me. Footballers move. And we didn’t have to move at all until two years ago. And in those two years, you decided you were done going, that I should be done doing, I don’t know, doing what footballers do. You decided that. Do you see that it’s not a choice for me to take the job or not? It’s a choice for you to support me.”

Alex looks up at him and blinks. 

“You and Xabi should really link up again. I’m sure you’ll have lots of similar experiences to whinge about.”

And Steven turns away from her and walks calmly to the bedroom, the sound of his bare feet against the hardwood the only sound in the house. He sits on the bed and calls Thierry despite the late hour, surprised when he answers clearly, no sign of sleepiness in his voice.

“Steven. Are you alright? It’s very late.”

“I’ve been better. Have you still got Xabi’s number? I need it. I’ll be in Liverpool tomorrow. I’d like to ring him.”

“So you’re not alright.”

Steven coughs out a laugh and feels his eyes sting again.

“The number, Thierry.”

 

 

Late July. Steven meets Xabi at the airport and cannot believe what he sees. He knows Xabi thrives in the heat, in the deep summer, when the horizon ripples. But after over two years apart, this is a lot to take in. He’s forgotten a lot about his friend. 

“Scousers and the Beatles. It is a garish love affair. Your airport is named after one.”

“Wasn’t always. You act like you’ve never been here. It used to be your airport too.”

“I complained about it then as well.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Xabi stands a few feet from Steven, a large enough distance that it feels equally as casual and comfortable as it does awkward. They are the same height but Steven has always felt taller, and does especially now because he’s lost quite a bit of weight and is looking gangly. Xabi, on the other hand, is filling out, a bit softer than Steven knew him to be and less defined around the edges. It looks so good on him that Steven cannot believe it. Xabi’s also looking aged but Steven understands the dustings of grey and the heavier eyes. It’s been a long few months. Xabi sets his luggage down with a quick, polite smile and hugs Steven, squeezing him once before backing off again. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and a lighter out of the other. 

“That’s the most normal thing you’ve ever done.”

“You mean smoke?”

Steven watches as Xabi nearly devours the cigarette, wondering how many of those things Xabi goes through in a day. Steven smiles when Xabi catches him watching, a little lost in Xabi’s new habits, new mannerisms. 

“Yeah. There’s finally something wrong with you. You have a nasty habit and now you’re no longer perfect Xabi Alonso.”

“Never perfect, Steven. Not in personal or professional life, I am afraid.”

“So I've heard. Your lot finished seventeenth, yeah? Brilliant. We talk about La Liga a lot on the show. I’m learning quite a bit, actually. There’s more to it than Madrid, Barca, Atleti.”

“Who would have thought. There is life outside the Premier League.”

Xabi offers the cigarette to Steven as they climb into Steven’s rental car, but Steven waves it away gently.

“Don’t smoke in me rental, Xabi. Christ. No fucking manners. Who are you anymore.”

“I can roll the window down.”

“When did you pick that up anyway? Jesus. How do you exercise? Your lungs must be proper fucked.”

Xabi leans on the door and holds the cigarette out the window as they drive off. Steven notices that his hair is longer than usual, and with the beard, Xabi’s looking a bit shaggy and maybe even unkempt for the first time in his life. But Xabi looks relaxed as well. Guarded, maybe. Serious. But he doesn’t look sad. The exalted image of Xabi in Steven's mind is fading and it’s weird. 

“Do you need the address to my hotel?”

Xabi asks as he finishes the cigarette and flicks it out the window.

“Yeah, soz you have to post up in a hotel. I haven’t got a place yet, only been here for a few days.”

Xabi shrugs dismissively. 

“I hear about your new position with Liverpool. It was only a matter of time.”

“I would have told you about it myself but I only got a hold of your new number recently.”

Steven notices how Xabi tucks into himself after that, how his arms cross tightly over his chest and his knees press together. Steven begins to apologize but Xabi stops him. 

“It is my fault. Things were not good and I was very tired of people and the press contacting me. Telephone, email, most of everything is deleted or changed when I move back to Spain.” 

“And you're divorced.”

“I am divorced.” 

Xabi pulls out another cigarette and rolls down the window, looking at Steven before lighting it as if he has to ask his permission, or as if Xabi would have listened to Steven if he had said no. 

“Go on, then. Gonna play the most shit music at your funeral when you die from lung cancer.”

Xabi laughs and chokes on the smoke, coughing and grinning at the same time. 

“Uninvited! Uninvited to my funeral.”

They make small talk. They talk about football, players, prospects for the upcoming season. Steven talks about the Champions League and Xabi talks about what it will be like to stand on the sideline next to Gary Neville when they play Valencia. They talk about the MLS and how their generation of footballers is drawn to America ( _but I have no idea why_ , Steven says, _because the travel to away matches is absolute shite_ ). Xabi does not hide how glad he is that he never moved to America, and Steven ribs him. _Alonso, you’re fucking stuck up, like. At least that’s not changed_. They talk about their children. When the discussion of their marriages naturally comes around, Steven speaks with a vibrating agitation.

“Alex and I had a bloody massive row a few nights ago, when I was in LA. And she’s got the nerve to say to me that it’s been good for you and Nagore to be apart from each other. The two of them text or something.”

Xabi doesn’t answer right away as they pull into the parking lot of Xabi’s hotel. He doesn’t answer until Steven pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car down.

“Alex can listen to what Nagore says. But you cannot, Steven. She and I do not speak. I have to work through my lawyer to see Jon, Ane, Emma. It is the worst thing. If Alex wants what Nagore and I have, she does not, you know. Understand. She does not love you.”

Steven can only watch as Xabi climbs out of the passenger seat and goes to the trunk, pulling out his luggage. Xabi comes around to the driver side window and Steven rolls it down numbly. 

“You said you are looking at apartments tomorrow. I will come and help?”

Steven swallows hard and nods, and Xabi pats him on the cheek.

“I am glad to be here. With you.”

Xabi walks away from the car but turns around again and asks _did I upset you?_ Steven isn’t sure what he is specifically referring to, because yes, Xabi constantly upsets him, but Steven says _no, Xabi. See you tomorrow_ as he drives off. 

 

 

The next day is a scorcher, so hot that Steven can barely think. He can’t concentrate and stumbles through a text to Xabi – _ready whenever you are mate._

Xabi looks a wreck when he gets into Steven’s car, like he got no sleep and needs a quality shower. His skin is darker and more freckled that Steven ever remembers it being, his cheeks are dusted red from sun, his eyes are dull. Steven looks away but Xabi doesn’t let him off easily. 

“I know. I am not feeling well. Try not to stare.”

Xabi manages a weak laugh as he rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. Steven laughs back politely. 

“No one’s going to recognize you looking like this, Xabs.”

“That is good.”

They head for Steven’s first apartment viewing and sit in silence for a while until Steven speaks up.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“I have lots of calls and emails for work. The season starts in two weeks. These are my last days vacation, and I spend them on you.”

Xabi almost sounds fond near the end and Steven nods, flushing a little. 

“Well. Thanks. Can’t make any important decisions for myself, so. Glad you’re here.”

“Have you and Alex separated?”

Steven stiffens. 

“Jesus, Xabi, maybe preface that next time.”

“Sorry. You are here buying an apartment and they aren’t.”

“We haven’t. We aren’t going to.”

Steven feels Xabi staring at him and Steven keeps his eyes resolutely forward on the road. _Here is this mess Xabi Alonso, judging me._

“Okay. But do you think, erm. Why would she stay there?”

“Dunno, Xabi. Been trying to work that one out meself. She says I’m selfish for choosing my job over her and the girls. Not once did she think she might be selfish for choosing LA over me.”

Xabi takes a long drag and holds in the smoke for a long time, leaning back in the seat and sighing. He speaks gently, never raising his voice above soft. But the tone is cold and steel and Steven can feel it. 

“ _Pinche idiota_ , Steven. It is the same as me. She will leave you from far away. And your girls will be kept from you like they are part of a game.”

“We’ve discussed it. We’re not splitting. They’ll visit and I’ll visit. We’ll make it work.”

“If your wife is like mine, you will have much difficulty seeing them.”

Steven exhales and is glad he hits a red light as his hands go shaky. Steven is molten lava and Xabi’s ice pricks him like needles. 

“She’s not your fucking wife anymore. And you don’t know anything about my marriage.”

Xabi’s eyebrows go up and he barks out a surprised laugh, sounding genuinely amused. Xabi hoists himself onto his side to face Steven, who refuses to look over.

“You think I don’t know. Don’t be stubborn, Stevie. I do not see my children for months. I speak to them but it is not the same. Not even seeing them over the screen.”

They pull into a rather fancy gated complex and Xabi gazes up at the towering apartment building.

“You are a fancy Scouser now. Fancy house in Los Angeles and in England.”

“Fucking shut up. For even just a second, would you.”

They both get out of the car and a wave of hot, sticky air hits Steven. His stomach churns and sour sweat drips into his eyes. Xabi is there, dirty and tired and smug, just looking at him, almost daring. Steven shoves him against the side of the car and shakes with the surge of adrenaline. Xabi doesn’t respond aloud, just stays braced against the car. Steven wants Xabi to yell, to make a noise, to hit him back. 

“You just want - fuck you, Xabi. You want everyone to be as miserable as you. To have no one to fucking go to like you. You chased your friends away. I tried contacting you so many times after I found out about you and Nagore. I had to fucking _find out_! You don’t. Fucking do that. To your mates. Thierry bloody Henry has to give me your number and then you come here and start chatting shit about my family. What the fuck do you know about family, let alone mine.”

Xabi looks back blankly, his back still against the car, unmoving. Steven’s breathing begins to slow, the spike in his heart rate regulates, his fists unclench. Steven is sweating profusely but he doesn’t see a single drop of sweat on Xabi’s whole body. His head throbs so violently that his vision goes in and out of focus with each pulse.

“I will go.”

Xabi says graciously, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Steven holds his hands up in capitulation.

“Xabi. No. Just. We’re okay. I’m sorry. Just give me a second to go talk to the apartment people and we will check it out, okay? You don’t need to leave.”

And Xabi looks at him again, a wide, poisonous smile smoothing across his face, his eyes crinkling as he squints into the bright sunlight. Xabi pushes off the car and brushes past Steven. Steven grabs his arm. 

“You are selfish, Steven.”

Steven lets go of Xabi's arm. "What?"

“I am sorry I shared my pain with you, Steven. I wish I didn’t have it. And when you have it, you would want me there for you?”

“What if I up and disappear like you did?”

“I regret that. But that’s what I had to do. Understand me when I say that I am very much struggling with this, _cabrón._ ”

“If you hadn’t gone fucking off the grid, I could have helped.” 

Something in Xabi snaps and he shoves Steven roughly, commanding and furious. 

“ _No me jodas!_ I am here now! I cannot go back and change it! No, _me voy, ahora mismo. Déjame en paz_ , Steven. I don't need this.” 

Xabi goes to walk off but turns around and shoves Steven again. 

“Are you angry I didn’t speak to you because you wanted to help me or because you are angry I couldn’t help you? Selfish _hijo de puta_. _Why does Xabi ignore me when I call about my problems_ , you will say. I will make sure to ignore this time when you call me about your divorce.” 

This time Steven lets him go. 


	3. Chapter 3

Coming off the visit, the two of them fully immerse themselves in football. They don’t know any other way. 

Xabi’s season begins in a whirlwind of successful training sessions and multiple victories home and away. Xabi feels hard, unmoving, strict, but sees his plan in action. The Real Sociedad staff around him stops questioning the new manager and everything conveniently runs like a well-oiled machine. By October, Xabi cannot remember the last time he held a full conversation in any language outside of Basque or Spanish, and when he tries to speak to a young American import at his Real Sociedad trial, Xabi speaks in quick, barely intelligible bursts of English inspiration. Xabi's missed the language. The young American loves it, loves him. 

Xabi wonders why people love him even when he’s at his hardest or at his worst, at his most unprofessional. He understands that the pundits love him because he’s taking Real Sociedad into the top half of the La Liga table. It makes for interesting reporting. But why does his Spanish family, whom he has hardly spoken to in months, come to every match? Why do his friends from Liverpool, Real, Bayern still contact him, sending him old pictures or invitations or just a message to check on him, tell him they’ve been watching Real Sociedad? Why do young footballers from strange countries he has never played in look at him in veneration, equal parts afraid and elated? Xabi feels the gap widen in him where his identity outside of football used to be, that his wife and children, his travels, his hobbies once filled. He doesn’t know himself outside of _Xabi Alonso, manager of Real Sociedad_ anymore. Even _former Liverpool/Real/Bayern midfielder_ sounds odd to him, as if it never actually happened.

Steven is a sight to behold, bundled in Liverpool gear, snow caught in his hair and caked onto his boots, breath in wispy clouds at Melwood. He’s lean and tall and bossy but quickly learns his place in the hierarchy – Klopp isn’t afraid to tell anyone, even Steven Gerrard, when his toes are being stepped on. After Klopp’s first few transfer windows, the first team is almost unrecognizable from the one Steven knew in his final season. But no matter how unacquainted Steven is with the new boys, no matter how annoyed Steven is with any given one of them, they smile at him. So he pushes a little harder because maybe he isn’t getting his point across, that he’s a serious coach, not just a talking head on the telly, not just a retired son of Liverpool. But they still smile. Steven rolls his eyes and pats Firmino on his back as he runs by. Liverpool are hovering around mid-table by the Christmas holiday. 

Sky is going well, as it’s been Thierry and Steven for a while now. Of course, Carra cycles through as a guest host when he pleases, as he’s still running the show over at MNF. England’s finest shuffle through to guest host and it makes Steven feel solid and grounded to have two fine gigs. He’s not a manager like Giggs and Gary, but Steven figures that’s always a future option. 

Alex sends divorce papers through the post early December and tells him he’ll not be getting the girls for the upcoming winter holidays. 

Klopp calls Steven into his office a few days before the holiday break and Steven doesn’t know why but he’s anxious. Stomach-shuddering, clammy palms anxious. Klopp catches this and tells him with a laugh to _relax, you’re not being sacked. Yet._

“We’ve got offers for Alberto and we’re looking into them. From a Spanish outfit you’ve got ties to. Real Sociedad. I’d like you to accompany him to the club so he can check things out, shake some hands, things like that.”

"Fuck’s sake, Kloppo." 

“It would only be for two or three days.”

Klopp laughs as Steven sinks lower and lower into his seat. 

“You seem like you really don’t want to go! Your friend is in charge there, no? I only asked because I thought you would enjoy it. I also thought because Alberto knows you well – ”

“No, no. Sorry. I’ll go. Not feeling like meself today, boss. Bit out of it. Of course I’ll go.”

Klopp grins and leans back in his seat.

“I was going to make you go anyway. Report back to me when you arrive – they will be expecting you.”

Klopp gives him the plane tickets and the necessary paperwork and sends him away with a _Frohe Weihnachten! See you in the next year, Steven, haha._ He calls Thierry on his way to his car and he picks up on the first ring, as always. Something Steven can always count on. 

“Thierry, mate. You still have Xabi’s number?”

“Hi, Steven. I gave it to you a few months ago, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well. I deleted it. Don’t have it anymore and I need it.”

“Again?”

He hears the laugh in Thierry’s voice and huffs as he slides into his car. 

“Don’t fucking laugh. It’s business related. Off to Real Sociedad to facilitate a trial.”

“What a drama you are. I imagine your Xabi is one also.”

Heat rises in Steven’s face. 

“He’s not my anything. Stop trying to get a rise out of me, like. Text it to me, trying to drive.”

 

 

He texts Xabi after he mills about the apartment a bit, occupying himself with the smallest of things to try and curb the anxiety. If he’s completely honest with himself, he’s wanted to talk to Xabi every single fucking day since August. All he can think about is slamming Xabi against his car. The sound of the metal against Xabi's back plays on loop. Steven doesn’t know why Xabi would even want to talk to him, but. He’s only doing Klopp’s business. 

_Hi Xabi, see you in two days_  
_Xabi I’m a dick but I’m coming to visit_  
_How’s the club_

But Steven knows how Real Sociedad are doing – very well. Better than Liverpool in comparison. It’s his job to know. 

He settles for a standard _Hi Xabi, how are you_ and he sets his phone aside face down. He showers, makes dinner, and manages to get through a week’s worth of training highlights before mustering up the courage to look at it again. 

_I am well. I hear you are coming to Anoeta soon_

_Sad to lose Moreno. Good lad_

_It is a handsome offer. surely you can appreciate that_

_not staying for long. one or two days. didn’t want to just show up without warning_

_do you want to stay with me_

Steven blinks in disbelief and his pulse speeds up quite a bit. _It’s a bleeding text message. He’s just being nice._ Steven immediately types _yes_ but deletes it in favor of something cagier. 

_are you sure that’s a good idea_

_if I did not want you in my home I would not offer_

And that’s a typical Xabi response. There he is, polite, honest Xabi, the Xabi that plays along with the image Steven has of him in his head from a long time ago. Steven’s blood thrums along. 

_ok then, cheers_

_let me know when you are to arrive at the airport and I’ll send a car for you and Moreno_

_thanks Xabi_

_it is no problem. gero arte, Stevie_

Steven tucks back into dinner and smiles through every bite. 

 

 

“Steven, can I say to you? I am thanking you for everything. You are _el mito_ for me…hm, that is wrong. _La leyenda_ , do you like that? _La leyenda_? _El mítico_?”

Steven looks over at Moreno with a wry, grateful smile. They are seated next to each other on the plane from Liverpool to San Sebastián. 

“Dunno what you’re saying, lad. But it sounds great.”

Alberto laughs. “These things are all good, Stevie.”

Steven doesn’t like to admit it but he did always get a little sick over the departure of the teammates he got on with, and hangs onto this feeling with Moreno. Moreno is always so present, so supportive and electric.

“I am very excite to play for Mister Alonso. Very excite- _d_. Excited.” 

“Spot on, way to work through that. I’m afraid your English won’t be of much use up at Sociedad though. You speak Basque?”

“Basque? _Vasco_? No, no. No good at that. I am from Seville, _de Andalucía_. From the South. Not North.” 

And Steven half-listens as Moreno launches into a Spanglish life story. 

“Didn’t you love it?”

Steven interrupts Moreno and Moreno smiles. 

“Sevilla? Or are you thinking of Liverpool.”

“Both.”

“I want to play in the World Cup, I want to play for Spain. I cannot make at Sevilla. Del Bosque leaves me. I play at Liverpool and Klopp is believing in me, I am trying and I am good, no?”

Steven grins. “You’re brilliant.”

“I am brilliant.”

Moreno sits and savors that for a moment before beginning again, even more impassioned.

“I love Liverpool. _Estoy enamorado de Liverpool_. But _el jefe_ looks me over now still. I want to go home to _España_ to be closer, I want to play _primer equipo_ all the matches, for my club and for La Roja.”

“Moreno, mate. You are sharp. Sharper than you think.”

“Sharp.”

Moreno pokes Steven roughly in the arm. “Sharp.” Steven winces and laughs, shaking his head. 

“Smart. You’re smart, that’s what it means. Go where you’ll play. You’re twenty-six. Don’t kip on the bench, yeah? Del Bosque is a madman for not calling you up.”

Moreno nods. “You are happy when you moved to Los Angeles? Because they play you every match when _mister_ at Liverpool bench you?”

“I was happy. Not sure how well I fit there, like. But.”

“I am not you, Stevie. I will fit. I will be La Roja.”

And Moreno elbows him, grinning madly and Steven shoves back with a snort. 

The flight is short and sweet and Moreno grabs Steven’s wrist excitedly when they enter _recogida de equipaje / ekipajeen_. Steven almost trips over Moreno’s rolling carry-on, laughing to himself when he notices it’s a Liverpool bag. 

“You gotta translate, _hombre_ , or at least lead the way.”

“ _Hombre_ , hm? Somebody now speaks Spanish.” 

Moreno leads Steven to baggage claim and that is where Moreno catches his first glimpse of Xabi, apparently. As Steven watches the bags go by and searches for his own, Moreno practically tugs at his sleeve, throwing in an excited hop for good measure.

“ _Bien, Steven, vamos_. I want to meet, I want to meet. _Quiero conocerlo_.” 

“He’s not _that_ great, Moreno, Jesus.” 

“I will say to him you say that.”

“Fucking do it and see what happens, you tit. Here’s my bag. Now where’s –”

Steven doesn’t have to finish his thought because there's Xabi, somehow standing out in the hustle and bustle of beautiful people saying beautiful sounding things. Steven’s mostly forgotten Spain and its many wonders since the last time he was here, years ago, but Xabi was always the wonder, someone that somehow stood out. And he still does. It’s a bit weird because Steven now has to walk to Xabi with Xabi staring him down, and Steven trying desperately to shift his eyes elsewhere, but Moreno sauntering up to him excitedly with hand outstretched to shake and quick Spanish at the ready. Xabi looks clean and more together than in the summer, whereas Steven thinks he’s probably taken on Xabi’s role now. Divorce is murder. Steven feels that weight now and hopes that’s what he’ll look like once it’s all over. Like this Xabi in front of him, content and warm even in frosty December. 

“ _Tu espíritu es increíble, Alberto. Hola, Steven. ¿Cómo fue el vuelo?_ ”

And Steven opens his mouth to answer, even though he only has a rudimentary grip on where this conversation is going, but Moreno jumps in enthusiastically. Xabi’s gaze flickers over to Steven, who shrugs. _You asked for him_ , Steven says softly, and Xabi says, _He’s just what I’m looking for. La energía._

Moreno is checked into a swanky hotel close to Anoeta, where the networking will begin tomorrow morning, and Moreno doesn’t give even the slightest pause when Steven doesn’t join him at the hotel. Steven only realizes then that he hadn’t told Moreno they weren’t staying together, and Steven offers to stay, feeling awkward and neglectful. 

“Do what you like, Steven. We will see each other either way.”

Xabi says from the front seat, the driver typing an address into the GPS system. Xabi calmly tells him to _ixtaron, mesedez_ and glances back at Steven expectantly. 

“Tell me you actually want me to stay with you.”

And Steven knows he’s taken a risk here, but he won’t go to Xabi’s home without that reassurance. He is long past worrying about sounding needy – he’s only in for this fucked up relationship if Xabi’s in. Xabi nods, eyes narrowing. 

“Okay, Steven. I want you to stay with me.” 

"Then I will."

 _Ados, prest gaude_ , Xabi says to the driver, and they are off.


End file.
